


So She Dances

by troiing



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Flirting, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual Character, F/F, Pansexual Character, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fake film meme (starring Amanda Tapping and Olivia Williams) that became a fic.  Click for ballroom dancing, middle-aged ladies being terrible at flirting and somewhat angsty about it, and a whole lot of UST that eventually gets resolved.  Between ladies.  Both of whom are bi/pan.  Awww yiss.</p><p>The original meme:<br/>"Esme Cox (Tapping)is 45 years old, and her life is falling apart, with a lost husband and a lost job at the top of the list of reasons to feel discouraged.  And then a friend takes her to the local ballroom studio for an open dance, where she meets Darcey Horne (Williams), a career dancer and studio instructor who stuns her the moment she sets foot on the dance floor.  Suddenly, the studio is Esme’s second home; she’s at every showcase, every open dance, and Darcey takes notice.  A sexy, if guarded, courtship begins, and somewhere in the midst of the two women learning each other on the dance floor, Esme begins to find herself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So She Dances

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only wholly original fic I've written in a long time (and it's pretty old now!), so now more than ever I'd appreciate your comments and the like! Thank you in advance, delightful readers!

No way in hell is Darcey Horne available in any sense of the word, but it doesn't stop Esme from watching. She’s never seen anyone move quite like Darcey does; she’s fascinated by her calves, by the sharp movement of her hips, by her strong, smooth back and shoulders and the way she moves with perfect control and elegance while her partner leads her across the floor.

She sneaks herself into some corner at these things, and she just watches. Wallflower Esme, who never dances, who hardly knows how, who’s done a little swing with a few of the men floating their way across the floor, but she’s here to watch Darcey Horne. Darcey moves like nobody she’s ever seen and in ways she’s never imagined. Darcey’s her drug, her Friday night happy pill. The other women are just dancers - beautiful, sometimes breath-taking, but they have nothing on Darcey - and the men here - well, the only one she’s paid any attention to is Darcey’s partner, and she scorns him on principle like a child on the playground. It’s not that she’s through with men or anything; she wants to compare, to contrast, to find out what it is about Darcey that makes her flush with want and shame.

There’s no visible difference, really. In the end, it’s an aura that surrounds her smiles and the confidence that melts off of her. It’s equally present in the way she walks and the way she nibbles at finger foods from a corner table. Even the thirsty swallows she takes from a water bottle are edged with an elegance that’s somehow simultaneously rigid and dainty.

She’s an enigma, and the length of her calf and thigh locked against a man’s waist in a tango, the sashay of her hips in a salsa, the flowing turns and extensions of all of her flash through Esme’s mind even outside of the studio. It’s a crush, but it’s far from innocent, and she embarrasses herself with the heat flushed through her belly, the relish of touching herself with this woman’s image in her mind.

*******

Darcey’s like a glance. She spins her way through the crowd with boundless energy—sometimes chatting, sometimes teaching, usually dancing. Esme considers approaching her, but is far too cowardly and embarrassed to bother. Her breath catches up in her throat at the very thought; she resigns herself to watching from the sidelines.

And then one night Darcey is walking directly towards her. Except that walking isn’t the right word. She’s gliding, she’s sashaying, she’s—whatever she’s doing, Esme’s eyes are on her hips, and she doesn’t even realize it, much less consider that Darcey’s coming for her, until the other woman’s earthy voice greets her.

“Some say it’s not polite to stare,” she declares quietly, reaching out her hand.

Esme practically leaps out of her skin. She latches onto the first thing she can to keep herself grounded: the odd angles of Darcey’s fingers, dancer’s hands, ballet hands. She takes the hand, and suddenly, the grip becomes an unexpectedly firm handshake. The grip levels her a little, but she grits her teeth against her own trembling. “I—” she begins, but stops, offering a self-conscious smile instead.

“There now. Shyness isn’t a suitable quality for this studio, you know,” Darcey says, moving a step closer. “You’re here almost every week, but you never dance unless someone asks you.”

Esme straightens her back, for once watching everything in the room except Darcey Horne. “I like to watch.”

“Ah,” says Darcey, nodding knowingly while she pivots on her toe to stand at Esme’s side and survey the dance floor herself. “And what do you like best to watch?”

Gazing uncomfortably at the couples floating by, Esme wrings her hands in front of her before smiling vaguely. She doesn’t make eye contact, but she does sigh quietly before hesitantly answering: “It’s all quite beautiful.”

“Enjoyable too,” she replies shrewdly. When Esme turns to face her, startled again, Darcey isn’t looking at her, but she arches a brow and her lips push into a wry pout. “Salsa?” she asks after a moment, voice bright. There’s a new, easy lilt to her voice. Everything about Darcey’s behavior is keeping Esme on her toes; she’s as changeable as the wind.

“Sorry?” Esme asks.

“The next song on the playlist is a salsa, if I’m not mistaken. Do you salsa?”

“Oh no. Not at all.”

Darcey’s hand is out again, and Esme can just see that she’s watching her from the corner of her eye. “I’ll teach you.”

“I - I don’t really dance,” Esme stammers, glancing away again and chewing on her lip.

“Don’t you? You seemed quite the natural when you danced West Coast Swing with Robert a few weeks back.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” she asks, feeling herself tense a little at the possible insult, which distracts her from the discomfort of being so close to the woman she’s been eyeing for weeks, if only just slightly.

“I’m rarely sarcastic, and never about dancing,” Darcey replies, tilting her chin up a little more just as Esme turns to glance at her, wondering desperately whether she’s being sincere or not.

After a moment, she decides she is, and purses her lips uncomfortably for a moment. “I guess I got lucky.”

“He’s a good lead; you followed him well.” Esme drops her head and keeps quiet, twisting her hands together until Darcey adds: “Dance with me.”

“Isn’t that a little - ?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are about a third again as many women as men here at any given time. Hell, on a good day, we outnumber the fellows two to one. It’s not so unusual for our female instructors to teach women.” And Darcey smiles, just a little with her lips, but with a warm gleam in her eyes, while Esme wonders if Darcey’s somehow reading her thoughts. “I’m told I’m a good teacher.”

“You’re an incredible dancer,” Esme replies before she can stop herself. She distracts herself from the outburst by watching as couples change out, migrating to and from the dance floor, and only then realizes that the last song has faded into what she recognizes as one of the club’s favorite salsa numbers. “You were right about the music.”

“The playlist rarely changes much. Come on.”

Before she knows what she’s doing, Esme has her hand inside Darcey’s. She sucks in a breath and allows the other woman to take both of her hands before confessing: “I think I know the basic steps.”

“Good,” says Darcey, grinning at Esme in an all-too-knowing gleam in her eye. “Show me. I’ll lead.”

“It’s - it’s a one-two-three, five-six - ”

“I didn’t say tell me,” Darcey interrupts, shifting her hold on Esme’s hands a little. “I said show me. Here.”

When Darcey steps forward on her left foot, Esme instinctively steps back on her right. She follows Darcey’s movements with relative ease, and allows herself a relieved laugh when she finds the effort isn’t a complete waste.

“There; you do pay attention. Your footwork is good. But relax your hips, dear; this is a salsa, not a march.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry; just move. You have hips, so use them. Who knows - you might impress someone.”

“I - I don’t think there are many people here I’d care to impress,” Esme confesses hesitantly, feeling herself flush with embarrassment and struggling valiantly to keep the knot out of her throat. She does, however, make a concentrated effort not to _march_ back and forth at Darcey’s lead.

“Who _would_ you care to impress?” Darcey asks, back to the knowing tone that Esme finds so unsettling already.

She exhales heavily before sucking in another breath and saying, as steadily as possible, “I’ll settle with my teacher for now.”

Just the right side of Darcey’s mouth pulls into a sly smile at that, but all she says is: “You’re doing very well. Would you like to try a turn?”

“Uh... yeah. Yes. Sure,” Esme replies.

“Just keep dancing. My cue will look like this,” says Darcey, dropping and raising her left hand again, dragging Esme’s right into an arc. “That’s on one, two, and three. On five, you’ll step forward; turn and finish on seven. Lead can dance the exact same turn, so just let me turn under your arm, and watch my footwork, alright?”

Esme nods confirmation and allows Darcey to free one hand from hers. She forces herself to keep her attention on the other woman’s feet while she spins, but she can’t keep her eyes from raking back up her legs and to her face after the second turn.

“Got it?” asks Darcey. Esme’s beginning to think she enjoys the attention.

“I think so."

“Alright. Try it.”

She’s not unsuccessful in the turn, but she missteps afterwards, nearly letting Darcey trod on her foot, and returning the favor when she tries (and fails) to regain the rhythm. “Sorry!”

“No - follow me. You just need to move your weight back onto your left foot after the turn. Try again”

This time, it goes better, and Esme smiles in relief when she steps back out of the turn and smoothly into the next count of one.

*******

“How long have you been together? You and Connor.”

Darcey’s leading another salsa the following week. She gives Esme an odd look before answering. “We’ve been dancing together for almost six years.”

“Oh. _Wow_. But how - aren’t you - ”

“ - an item?” Darcey interrupts with an arch of her brow and a quirk of her lips. She turns Esme under her arm before pulling her in close and settling a hand on the small of her back, but the closed position doesn’t startle Esme now like it did the first time, and she doesn’t have to clench her teeth at their sudden nearness. “We don’t have quite that kind of relationship.”

“Really,” Esme remarks, and she can’t keep a sort of disbelieving edge out of her voice.

To her credit, Darcey has a good sense of humour, and she laughs quietly while spinning Esme away from herself again, trying a more complex move that has Esme distracted by the movement of her own feet. She’s fallen in well though, and she’s already learned to follow Darcey’s lead. She _is_ a good lead, and dancing with her is - well, put simply, Esme doesn’t want to be the wallflower anymore.

“Dance partners don’t necessarily make for romantic partners.”

“You could have fooled me in your showcases,” she replies with an arched brow. Darcey and Connor specialize in tango, and the two showcases she’s seen (along with some other dancing here and there) have been enough to take note of the chemistry between them.

“Tango is a sensual and passionate dance, yes, but most of it’s acting.”

“Most?” Esme challenges, an unintended edge to her voice.

Darcey laughs again, quietly. “Well, if you’re not comfortable with your partner, it will show through. There has to be a great deal of mutual trust and respect, obviously. Connor and I are very good friends, but that’s all we are. Come to think of it,” she adds after a moment, looking suddenly thoughtful, “I’ve never once slept with a long-term dance partner.”

Esme favors her lip, watching Darcey carefully for a moment before asking: “Would you?”

Immediately, she wants to kick herself for the question. It’s simultaneously too forward and absolutely ridiculous. Esme Cox, fancy herself for a moment any sort of long-term partner for Darcey Horne? She masks her face as best she can, hoping her question reads as mere curiosity.

Darcey merely looks thoughtful for a moment, then one side of her mouth twitches upward just a little. “Perhaps. It would depend on the person, and their ability to separate what happens in the bedroom from what happens on the dance floor, wouldn’t it?”

Esme makes a noise of agreement in response, and allows herself to feel comforted by the fact that the current song is coming to an end. Funny; she recognizes this one too - a tango. She’s surprising herself, these past two weeks, with what she’s learned just by watching and having very rudimentary knowledge to begin with.

“I’d like to learn to tango. Maybe later, or - or direct me to someone...”

“Why not now?” Darcey interrupts. The distance between them disappears again, and Esme’s eyes widen.

“I - well, that’s not - you can’t... I know I’m not a great dancer. Please, I - I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Who said it would be an imposition? The steps - ”

“No, n-no,” Esme stammers, shaking her head and pushing back a little. “You - you don’t come here to teach; you come to enjoy yourself.”

And Darcey, she’s pulling back, for the first time laughing at Esme, but there’s nothing cruel in the gesture. She shifts her arm a little to keep Esme close. “I _enjoy_ teaching you,” she asserts, and Esme freezes. She barely feels herself being resituated into the appropriate position. Darcey tilts her head and smiles while placing Esme’s hand on her arm and wrapping her own around her waist again. “Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Or as we like to say around here: ‘slow, slow, _tan-go close_.”

*******

Her body’s in perfect curves, extended backward, all of her at angles no woman their age ought to be able to achieve, Esme thinks, wondering if she has even half as much flexibility and control. Darcey, as ever, is all form and elegance, all subtle motion - straightens, bends back again, the movement of her arm giving her the appearance of flowing water.

She speaks languidly, rhythmically, words accompanying her movements. “I started with ballet, and I’ve done my share of contemporary - and I’d still argue that Merce Cunningham is one of the best things to happen to the dance world - but I fell in love with ballroom when I was, oh, eighteen, and I’m getting a little old for all that anyway.”

“I don’t believe you’re getting too old for anything,” Esme replies with a quiet laugh, watching as Darcey changes legs and recommences her stretching.

“I’m flattered,” Darcey replies in that tone Esme will never become accustomed to, spoken in the woman’s earthy voice, but with an airy lilt that both opposes and compliments her. “All that fall and recovery, the rapid directional changes - it’s become too much for these joints.”

“When did you start focusing on tango?”

“About the time I got involved in ballroom dance,” Darcey sighs, extending backwards in one more long stretch before lowering her leg to the floor. “I loved it from the start. There’s never a dull moment, as far as I’m concerned.” She says this as she performs a pirouette, arms low, but curved into the same perfect arcs.

“But you still do ballet.”

“Just a little. To stretch, to practice poise, to have something to do when I’m alone and bored.” She follows the last with a warm laugh, and in Esme’s following silence, performs a graceful chain of pirouettes over to where she’s standing. “Well?”

“Darcey... why exactly are we here?” she asks uncertainly, frowning at the other woman for a moment. They’ve taken up a little side room that looks an awful lot like a ballet studio for their lesson.

“I like to use this space for warming up, and you’ll need to do that just like with any other activity. More importantly, the mirrors will help you when we start dancing, don’t you agree?”

“Oh.” Esme isn’t entirely certain she wants to watch herself try and fail on the dance floor, and she’s less certain she wants to put her own lacking athleticism on display, but she nods anyway. “You know I’m not - ”

“I know everyone doesn’t move the way I do, if that’s what you mean,” Darcey interrupts, traces of a reassuring smile lining her lips and eyes. “I don’t actually live in the studio, contrary to what some believe.”

“Don’t you?” Esme inquires with her own trace of wryness. She finds Darcey’s humor a little settling, and follows the words with her own brief smile. “Why are we here all alone, then?”

“Because I have a key,” Darcey replies with an odd tilt of her chin. She’s leaving something unsaid, and Esme thinks she was wrong to let herself feel completely comfortable. She clears her throat abruptly and drops her eyes. She can feel Darcey’s gaze on her for a few moments. “My god, you’re like a spring, aren’t you?” the woman asks after a moment, humor behind her voice.

“Sorry?” Esme asks hesitantly, glancing furtively at Darcey again.

“All the fuss is charming enough, but other attitudes are more becoming on you.”

Esme scrapes her fingernails across her own palms, fists bunched at her sides, feeling a familiar fluttering rising into her chest. “And what would those be?”

“Oh, dear,” Darcey says quietly, following it with a tsk. “Don’t ask questions you’re not comfortable hearing the answers to.”

*******

“Take it off.”

“Excuse me?” Esme asks, turning on Darcey in shocked agitation.

“I said take it off, dear; you can’t dance in that.”

“Darcey, it’s not a competition, it’s just - ”

“ - a lesson, and I can’t see what you’re doing in that shirt.” Darcey pauses for a moment, staring at Esme, and then arches a brow. “You _are_ wearing a bra.”

“I - of course I am,” she replies, just flustered enough to rise to Darcey’s bait..

“Then take the shirt off. It’s not as if there’s anyone here to judge you besides me, and I’m far more interested in your posture than your figure.”

Darcey’s voice never rises above the same reasoning, even tone, but Esme bristles a little anyway. It’s the final comment, an unwanted distress. Darcey has never said as much, but she’d thought the dance instructor had some level of interest in her, and it’s her own childish fancies as much as Darcey’s coolness that makes her uncomfortable.

“I’ll take mine off too, if you like,” Darcey adds after a moment, smirking a little. The audacity of the offer is immediately evident; her top clearly has a built-in bra. Rather than laughing or feeling awkward about the suggestion though, Esme fumes quietly.

“That won’t be necessary,” she mutters, muffled by the oversized shirt she’s pulling over her head. “There,” she adds after she’s tossed the garment haphazardly towards the wall, leaving Esme feeling uncharacteristically exposed despite the sports bra. “Happy?”

“Can’t answer that until you show me what you’ve learned in the past month, can I?” Darcey asks, looking more thoughtful than usual - enigmatic, but bright. Her lips pull at an odd angle, eyes partly closed. Esme grits her teeth, uncomfortable and feeling snubbed, and watches Darcey until the other woman asks: “Shall we dance? Of course you don’t have to, but it seems rather silly to stand around in an empty studio half dressed, doesn’t it?” Darcey adds in an infuriatingly casual tone that makes Esme exhale swiftly in response.

*******

Two months after that first salsa, Darcey’s still as mystifying as ever, but Esme doesn’t have to force her breathing back to normal or coax her pulse slower every time she flies by anymore. 

She hasn’t had many lessons, but Esme finds that she has, in fact, relaxed significantly under Darcey’s tutelage. At first, she is confused and embittered by the apparent mixed signals, but she decides that it is merely a part of Darcey’s personality. If it is, she can accept it— _does_ accept it, and from there, she transitions into a more comfortable relationship with the dance instructor. _Her_ dance instructor. Darcey has become someone to impress and admire, and although desire still flutters beneath the surface, the enlightening fact that Darcey does not have the same interest in Esme has quelled some of the heat that had risen through her belly and into her chest before.

And indeed, the dance floor requires a level of professionalism that she adopts quickly. Only after a lesson does she remember how such a close position, Darcey leading the steps, had caused their breasts to touch, how instructions and praise had caused the other woman’s breath to stir against her ear.

And she remembers that Darcey isn’t charging her for these lessons—that each one has taken place in an otherwise empty studio, and that every time she has inquired, Darcey had denied any fee. This is good, because she doubts she could afford even group lessons. So they are friends—better friends than Esme sometimes thinks, and although the awkwardness of their encounters is gone with the ridiculous notion that Darcey might, somehow, in some way be hers, she still feels a little guilty at times.

After all, they are still Darcey’s legs, Darcey’s arched back and curved neck dancing through her fantasies.

Esme is no longer the wallflower at the weekly dances either. She falls from partner to partner, available men and willing female leads where necessary, learning and practicing as she goes. Always at some point, she’ll find herself at Darcey’s disposal again, receiving praise or instruction, despite that the veteran dancers are always willing to lend a few pointers here and there. “You’ve been hiding your talent from us,” remarks a man with laughing eyes one night, causing Esme to blush furiously and make some comment about learning quickly with such willing instructors. “Some more willing than others,” he quips with affected flamboyance, bowing with a flourish to kiss the backs of her fingers before winking and spinning another woman into his arms as smoothly as if the change-off were planned.

Another night, Darcey and Esme do not cross paths until the tail end of the evening. Darcey hovers near Esme at the snack table for the length of a song and then, in a comfortable intimacy of behavior that Esme doesn’t think should surprise her (though of course it does), Darcey reaches over to take Esme’s plate and drink out of her hands and set them on the corner of the table. Before Esme can object, Darcey takes her by the hand, guiding her onto the floor with another hand in the small of her back.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had been avoiding me tonight,” Darcey quips while releasing Esme’s hand to guide her into the appropriate dance position.

“I could say the same for you,” Esme remarks. Somehow, she can’t help but feel a little empowered by Darcey’s apparent interest now, as if she’s been playing hard-to-get.

“Oh?”

Esme shrugs. “It’s not as if I’m the most sought-after partner in the studio.”

Darcey merely arches a brow. “Why don’t you stay a while tonight? Help clean up - it won’t take long. Then you could come to my flat. I’ve got a lovely bottle of wine, and it would be a shame to drink it alone,” she says in a tone no different than the usual: quiet, warm, enigmatic.

And she’s sipping on an Eiswein with a label she can’t pronounce, much less read, glad for the snack tables at the dance studio, because the wine is like a dessert in and of itself.

“I don’t think I’d have been able to share this if it were me,” she mumbles over the glass, peering at the wine’s coloration before rolling another sip around on her tongue.

Darcey chuckles quietly. “I suppose I just enjoy having company.”

“Do you?”

“Hmm.”

“And how much does my company cost?” she asks, lifting her glass a little and gesturing to the empty wine bottle.

Darcey meets Esme’s glass in a toast despite that it wasn’t Esme’s intention. “Price is irrelevant.”

“I think it is. You asked _me_ over, after all. We barely know each other.”

“Don’t we?” Darcey asks, sounding legitimately surprised. Her tone quickly fades off to a knowing one though, and she quirks her lips a little. “I think I know you quite well.”

“Oh really.”

“Some things.”

“Like what?”

Darcey peers at her for a moment before answering. “I think you were recently in a long-term relationship. Really long-term. Maybe married.” She’s blunt, but her tone has sombered a little.

Esme balks inwardly, but offers a vague smile. “Really? And how _did_ you come to that conclusion?” she asks, feigning blitheness.

“You gave the impression that you’d been relatively comfortable with someone for a long time,” Darcey murmurs quietly, a gentle edge to her mouth despite that her tone takes a turn for the clinical. “You’re not used to seeking approval from people you don’t know. You have a great deal of self-confidence that you don’t appear to have until you receive some sort of confirmation.” She pauses for a moment, and Esme is relieved to see an encouraging look cross Darcey’s eyes. She smiles a moment later. “And your courtship rituals are abominable.”

The discomfort of having a few of her less tolerable traits put before her drops in favor of surprise in an instant. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not blind, Esme. Neither is anyone else at the studio, for that matter.”

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Esme mutters lamely, swallowing the last of her wine with a wince. Of course she knows, and she’s suspected for a long time that Darcey knows too, despite that she’s well past accepting that Darcey doesn’t feel the same.

“Oh, dear. Watching me all the time; _nasty_ looks at poor Connor until I told you we weren’t in a romantically invested relationship. I didn’t think my advances were that veiled either,” she adds with a shrug, watching Esme carefully.

Esme snorts in reply, gazing incredulously at Darcey. “What advances? You may as well have told me you weren’t interested in me about a month ago.”

It’s Darcey’s turn to look incredulous. It must be the first time her expression’s broken, the first time Esme’s seen her without some charmingly enigmatic look in place. Then a look of understanding dawns on her, and Esme frowns a little. “Oh. You’re talking about the _baggy shirt incident_ ,” she says with a tilt of her chin and an arched brow, a laughing emphasis on the last three words.

“Mm. That’s the one,” Esme replies a little sourly.

Darcey leans closer, ducking down a little and catching Esme’s lowered gaze. “Oh dear. Esme. Dance floor... professionalism? Ring any bells?”

Esme’s taken off guard - blinks and stares down at Darcey for a moment, furrowing her brows at the other woman. And then, without a second thought, like a switch has been flipped somewhere in her mind she kisses her, hard: dives in, locks her lips over hers, slides her hand behind Darcey’s neck. And she doesn’t get the opportunity to even begin to doubt herself, because immediately, Darcey tilts her chin into the kiss, hand landing in Esme’s hair. She gives what she gets, and more; her lips part, and Esme responds to the pressure of Darcey’s mouth on hers, parting her own lips in turn, vying for control with her tongue and making it evident that she’s not interested in playing follow the leader this time by shoving Darcey back into the sofa and crawling into her lap.

Something tells Esme she should have expected it, but Darcey’s sound of surprised pleasure drives her to moan too. Having both hands cupped over Darcey’s breasts doesn’t help. Soon, she’s rocking her hips, exploring Darcey’s body with mindless fervor - kneading fingertips into the fabric of her dress, massaging her hips, pressing a palm flat against her belly to feel the pulse below her ribs and her halting breaths, curling her fingers against Darcey’s center. The fabric getting in the way doesn’t keep Darcey from gasping, from awakening a blissful whimper in Esme’s throat.

“Oh... _good_ ,” Darcey moans around Esme’s lips. 

Esme captures her mouth again, and doesn’t let up until Darcey arches against her, every violent, gasping breath bumping her breasts against Esme’s. She grips the back of the sofa hard, moving her other hand searchingly up Darcey’s body again. But the initial realization, the wave of passion are over, and she’s less blindly confident, less fiery want, and she can’t help but wonder if this is her, or Darcey, or both of them. The waning kisses, long and hard and desperate, and her shaking hands, are probably more than Darcey needs to know she’s losing confidence; she reads her too well. 

“Why don’t - ” Darcey starts, interrupted by her own breathing and Esme’s lips, voice husky with pleasure “ - we go... to bed. Hmm?” Esme has the distinct sense that she’s being handled, but a little hope flares up in her belly at the suggestion. “Comfortable,” she continues, nibbling Esme’s jaw when the kisses stop. “We’re in for a long night, I think.”

She wants more, and Esme groans when Darcey’s tongue flicks across her neck, warmth of her mouth mingling with the heat of her breaths.

The details, the whys and hows, are forgotten. They undress each other on their way to the bedroom.

*******

Last night isn’t exactly a blur, but it is surrounded in a sort of haze that Esme is going to account for based on the fact that she has no idea how or why it happened, and it felt so good it’s a little unreal anyway. But the unfamiliar shirt and yoga pants on the bed are definitely real, and so are the unmistakable smells and sounds of cooking breakfast.

Not to mention the heady, lingering smell of Darcey Horne.

“You’ve got good timing,” she says brightly when Esme walks into the kitchen dressed in the borrowed clothes, offering a wry smile to her houseguest. “How do you like your eggs?”

Esme stares at her for a moment, caught off-guard by the evident domesticity. When Darcey arches a brow, she shakes herself out of it, blinking a little sleepily at the waiting pan. “Er - just scrambled is fine. Please,” she adds haltingly, wetting her lips as Darcey rapidly cracks eggs into a bowl to whisk. “You ah... don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Hm. I do try to maintain a certain level of hospitality for my guests. And I rather like a good breakfast myself. Toast?”

“I... please. Jam?”

“Of course.”

Esme hesitates, watching Darcey at the stove for a moment before clearing her throat. “Darcey, I... what was last night?”

Darcey arches a brow again, then smiles vaguely. “Enjoyable. Would you like to rephrase the question?”

“I mean - ” she sighs, easing her way onto a barstool and scrubbing her face. “Was this a one-time thing, or... or something else?”

Darcey has never hesitated, so far as Esme can remember, but she does now. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “What do you want it to be?”

“That’s... that’s not relevant,” Esme replies, a little flustered by the response.

“Of course it is,” Darcey responds, serving the eggs onto plates. “You’re an important party in this, aren’t you? You instigated it. Your desires are very important.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she responds defiantly, watching as Darcey continues to serve plates. “It’s - ”

“Let _me_ rephrase the question,” Darcey says, spinning to look at her as she breaks in. “What do you _think_ it is?” She watches Esme carefully for just a moment, and Esme once again has the impression that Darcey’s just a little too knowing - she catches her before Esme can respond. “And before you get snippy with me again, do bear in mind that I’ve been giving you entirely free dance lessons while the studio isn’t in use, you drank half of a very good bottle of wine last night at my expense, I’ve never once complained about your blatant staring and probable fantasizing, and... and you’re wearing my clothes.”

Esme has no idea what to make of the tone. It’s similar to the one she’s used before, the one that contradicts her usual warm, earthy way of speaking by lilting casually through the air. Her expression in the back half of the accusations makes it evident enough that she’s teasing, but it still takes Esme a good few moments of staring to summon up some course of action.

“You’re interested,” she finally says, disbelievingly.

“Don’t be daft, dear; it’s not becoming on you.”

Despite that Esme’s certain she doesn’t mean harm by the words, she shakes her head at Darcey. “Please don’t. Please just have an honest conversation with me. Right now - ” Right now, she’s suddenly terrified. “It _has_ been a long time since I’ve had to do this, alright? And - and veiled conversations didn’t exactly help my relationship with my husband.”

“I’m sorry.” The response is immediate, quiet and sincere. “Esme?”

All she can manage is a non-committal noise in response.

“Esme, why don’t you tell me what you want?” she adds, just as softly. She’s circling to Esme’s seat, reaches out to brush the back of a finger against her shoulder. “I think I know, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say it.”

She’s quiet for a long few moments, and Esme swallows hard, wringing her hands in her lap. Darcey’s waiting, and she knows it, and although cognitively she understands that she wouldn’t be here in this moment if Darcey didn’t want it, she’s terrified to bring her desires out in the open.

Finally, Darcey moves again, apparently fueled by some understanding of Esme that Esme doesn’t even have of herself. She bends down, turning Esme’s chin gently towards her. “What do you want, Esme?” And then she doesn’t wait; she leans in, and Esme inhales sharply at the kiss - no longer filled with heated lust and, although not particularly gentle, much warmer and softer than the previous night.

She freezes for a moment, breathless. And then she pushes back, lips moving against Darcey’s. She tilts her head just enough, just _long_ enough, to free her mouth for a single word: “ _You_.”


End file.
